


better to dream, far sweeter to slumber

by sluttychans (inviserata)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bar, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Light Angst, M/M, Sleep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26547982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inviserata/pseuds/sluttychans
Summary: Where Doyoung is an insomniac who finds himself seeking the most unlikely places for companionship and comfort while Taeyong is a bartender with way too much time on his hands, a soft spot for a man who reads classic novels by the bar, and a heart that's way too big for his own good.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	better to dream, far sweeter to slumber

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I'm adding tags as I write through this story. I hope I can finish this anytime soon and your feedback is highly appreciated. (I'm also editing things as I write so the versions might not align up if you are an early reader. As much as possible, I'll try to stick to what the original publication had. Sorry!)

Doyoung cannot fall asleep. The lack of sleep, or the absence thereof, he surmises, has taken a toll on him. It creeps on the fibers of his being, frays the ends, and eats away at the remaining part of his life that is still sane. He tosses and turns, all night, every night-- hoping foolishly for something to help him achieve peace. While there are times that he succumbs to the sweet surrender of slumber (and the endless void that swallows his consciousness whole and spits it out just as vehemently) he would wake up tired, groggy-- like the world had just draped the heaviest blanket on his shoulders.

It had been like that for the past seven months. Doyoung does not know where it started, nor does he see an end to it. He thinks that it was the collective effort of his unhealthy drinking habits and late nights at the firm, trying desperately to grasp a semblance of life in the world full of suits and handshakes.

But then, maybe it’s because of him.

Doyoung shakes the thought away; but just the idea of him is enough. Mentally, an image forms. An image, a ghost of a feeling of calloused hands caressing his cheeks. His lips, kissing the latter’s knuckles, him tasting sweetness in return. _Was it sugar?_ His past self asks, then the scene shifts, warps, like a slideshow of memories. He suddenly remembers the soft honey color of his eyes-- Doyoung finds himself arrested once again by these thoughts.

At a flurry of wanting to get rid of those intrusive thoughts, he shot up from his bed; blood flowing right back up to his head. His vision dims for a split second, but he’s used to it. He’s grateful for it, even. It grounds him against the torrent of memories that are nothing but him.

Him, him, him.

Doyoung stands up, his bare feet touching the cold hardwood floors. He moves his way around the condominium, itching for another glass of whiskey to muffle his thoughts. The louder it is, the harder it will be for him to fall asleep-- not that he has done so for the past three days. His hands feel for the cupboards, then the cool familiar glass bottle of his favorite drink. Grabbing the bottle by the neck, he made his way to the balcony for some air.

The air, much to his disappointment, was unwelcoming. It was the kind of air that whipped from several directions, blasting you straight through your bones with sharp cool winds. The altitude did not help either. Doyoung took a huge swig from the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The liquor traveled down his throat with a hot trail, settling somewhere in his stomach as he looked out and stared at the cityscape.

The night sky, barely dotted by stars, was filled with artificial ones--lights coming from the windows of distant skyscrapers that blurs the skyline completely. Two hundred meters above the ground, Doyoung feels like he could see everything yet nothing at all the same time.

He closes his eyes and braces himself against the cool wind.

He breathes.

He thinks of him again.

* * *

“I think he’s bored,” Johnny whispers, his other hand busy wiping down the counter, eyes slyly gazing upon the man across the room.

“No,” Yuta shots back, voice equally hushed as they conspired over the mystery man, “maybe he’s brokenhearted and this is the place where they first met.”

Taeyong minds his own business on the back of the counter, shoving new stocks of liquor on the cupboards, displays, and cabinets. He knows that sooner or later, either one of them would bother him again over that man. While that hasn’t happened yet, he busies himself with the task at hand, a pen tucked behind his ears and a clipboard resting on his arms.

He lost track of his count again-- how many bottles has it been again?

He sighs softly as he goes back to the start and starts counting in multiples of five. By the number seventy-five, Johnny taps him (Johnny would argue that it was light, but for him, it isn’t, it felt like he was jabbed by a stick).

“What?” Taeyong asks in an impatient tone, eyes resignedly glaring at Johnny with a contempt comparable to a five-year-old. He knows where the conversation is headed.

Johnny points at the suit-clad man on the corner of the bar, “You got any bets on why he’s here?”

His eyebrows cock up, barely glancing at Suitman (a silly name given by Yuta to refer to that man). “No,” He says, planting a solid palm on Johnny’s chest to push him away from his personal space, “and it seems like I’m the only one who has a job here.”

Yuta peeks from behind Johnny and flashes him a blinding smile, “No come on, don’t be unfair. It’s boring here. We just need your input on this.”

“My input is that this is a waste of time,”

“Oh come on,” Johnny flashes him his signature puppy-eyed look. “Aren’t you just as curious?”

“No.” He starts counting again. Eighty, eighty-five, ninety--

“If you ask him why he’s here I’ll give you $100.”

His hands freeze halfway through counting, he whipped his head towards Johnny (his face still emulating those of a kicked puppy) and says in an even tone, “Just because you’re my boss and my friend doesn’t mean you could just hang two night’s worth of income above my head as bait to participate in all this.”

“It’s just a small incentive,” His face warps into a shit-eating grin, “for your service.”

“Service?”

Yuta pipes up, “Well, since our boss here can’t get straight to the point, he wants you to ask Suitman why he’s here so that we could settle this ongoing guessing game for once and for all.”

Taeyong’s ears perked up at how easy it is, “That’s all?” He asks, a slow, joyful smile forming on his lips.

“Well if you place your bet I can hike it up to $150,” Johnny nonchalantly says, “you just have to add $50 to the pool, though.”

Taeyong’s mood has completely shifted. Counting be damned-- he could earn $150 for a stupid bet?

He takes this as an opportunity and smiles, tiptoeing a little bit to be able to glance at the man from Johnny’s shoulders. There he was, a fixture on this upscale bar for the past three months. Every night, he would come in and order at least three glasses of whiskey, drink it slowly throughout the night whilst reading a book.

The man donned a fitted dark blue suit and slicked back jet black hair. On his left wrist lies a chunky yet expensive-looking watch while on his right hand, a book was nestled comfortably between his long fingers. His face was smooth, with a serene look washing all over him.

Something about him was undeniably attractive, but all rich men at that age do. For all the experience he’s had with tending bars, Taeyong is used to the sight of lonely men of all ages just wandering the bar for a sliver of social interaction.

This guy, he thinks, is different.

“I’m going to bet,” he says, moving away from the storage room and onto the bar itself. He plants the clipboard down the bar, turns, and smiles sheepishly at them, “I think he has trouble sleeping.”

Yuta scoffs, propping his elbows against the bar, looking straight at Suitman. He does not even try to hide that they’re obviously talking about him. Talk about being straightforward, right?

“He’s lonely, or he just broke up with his girl,” Yuta slams a crumpled $50 bill on the bar, “that’s my final bet.”

Johnny crosses his arms and licks his lips, “No, he’s just bored, I’ve analyzed and traced everything that he has done for the past three months. I’m going to win this.” Another $50 was stacked.

He shakes his head, fully confident with his bet. Taeyong does not even bother pulling out his own money (because he literally has $2 and spare change left).

“So, are we doing this?” His question was met with noises of affirmation. After that, he bunched up his sleeves up to his elbows and left the bar, crossing the establishment slowly, making his way to Suitman.

The closer he gets to him, the more he notices how immaculate the guy looks. Everything about him looks crisp, the suit was snug and it fit at the right places, his shoulders were wide--God, even the loose necktie felt like it was purposefully put there to make him seem more laidback than usual.

Taeyong feels himself gulp, suddenly nervous that the guy will turn out to be a massive asshole who wouldn’t give him the time of his day. The slight furrow on the man’s eyebrows deepened as he coursed through the book, his fingers flipping through the pages with a delicate touch. Taeyong clears his throat.

The man did not seem to notice the sound, nor Taeyong standing a foot away from him. Instead, he flipped through another page and continued to read.

“Excuse me,” Taeyong’s voice came out small, almost too squeaky for his taste. He was still nervous, and his stomach was somersaulting quietly. Maybe he could let the $150 dollars go. Before Taeyong could swivel on his heel to run back to the comfort of the bar, the man snapped the book shut and planted it on the table in front of him.

“You’re staring,” the man says, his voice was cool, almost melodic. It didn’t give away much on what his emotions were, that alone terrified Taeyong.

“Did I forget to pay for something?” He asks, his hands slipping inside his suit, reaching for his wallet.

“N-no, I, I was just wondering i-if,” Taeyong stammers, his face flushed a deep red in embarrassment. The man looked at him, and Taeyong couldn’t help but look at his face, the ridges on his throat, and all the way to the slope of his neck.

 _Fuck, why are you checking him out?_ He chides himself.

“If?” The man prompts, his eyebrows rising in curiosity. His tone was still flat. Taeyong flushes further into a scarlet shade.

“Well, my friends and I made a bet over you,” Taeyong says, motioning to the bar where Johnny and Yuta were watching everything unfold. The two were obviously biting back from laughing at him. “We were really curious as to why you stay here, to you know,” he points at the book, “read.”

The man chuckles--his face suddenly turning from a blank canvas into a softer peach glow enhanced the bar’s warm lighting. His lips tug up into a sweet, yet calculated smile. It was obvious that this man used to smile a lot, it was obvious with the soft blur of laugh lines. Taeyong wonders, for a man who used to smile a lot, he sure frowns a lot, too.

“It’s Gangnam,” the man squints a little to see the name tag on his chest, “Taeyong. Nobody really wants to see a grown man in a library at this hour with college kids surrounding him.”

Something about the way his name rolled off of the man’s mouth elicited a warm feeling in him. It was funny, how this cool, charismatic man has rendered him useless and acting like a schoolgirl by just saying his name. What the fuck, right?

His mouth opened and closed back again as he tried to think of a clever response--he’s usually good at this, but all words just turn into mush when that man is staring at him that way. His eyes were overly inquisitive, scrutinizing even.

“But,” Taeyong starts, voice suddenly even, “why do you read this late at night?”

“Oh,” the man trails off, a hand making his way to the back of his neck as he rubs it slowly. “I can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Taeyong couldn’t even hide his emotions-- his eyes just popped right out of its sockets and his jaw dropped out of shock.

“I guessed right.”

“You won the bet, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” A shy smile crept onto Taeyong’s lips.  
“How much are you supposed to win, then?” The man crossed his legs and turned his whole body to face Taeyong more comfortably.

Taeyong smiles, “A hundred and fifty.”

The man’s face shifted in approval, “That’s quite a lot. It seems like your friends are having a great time theorizing about me, huh?”

“Oh, I think ever since you walked in here, they were just fascinated about you,” Taeyong shifts his weight on his feet, “You were kinda different compared to our, if I say so myself, usual customers.”

His eyes furrowed in confusion, this time a deeper one compared to his face when he’s busy concentrating, “Usual?”

“The, you know,” Taeyong elaborated, using his hands to gesture at the whole bar, “the old guys who smell like cigars? The alcoholic men in their 40s crying about their divorce? You know, the usual.”

The man burst into peals of laughter, clutching his stomach with his right hand, the other covering his mouth. His laughter was gentle and adorable, short breaths trying to outrun each other on the way out. His laughter slowly dissolved into a smile that he tried not to break out into a full grin.

Taeyong feels like he’s melting into a puddle.

“I’m Doyoung,” the man says, extending his hand towards Taeyong. He met his hand with a solid grip, slightly aware that Doyoung’s hands were cold and smooth. “You’re a funny guy, Taeyong.”

His grip faltered slightly, and he gave it a cursory shake before dropping it down. A small polite smile made his way into his lips as he said, “I try not to be. It seems like I just can’t help but be a comedic genius.”

“Huh,” Doyoung voiced out, his tone exaggeratedly pensive, “so you’re unaware of your potential?”

“Very.” He agrees.

Doyoung, as if shocked by something, suddenly pulled his phone out of his pocket. Whatever he read, it must’ve been important; for his eyes immediately went round as he read the message over and over again.

He glanced back up at Taeyong with an apologetic look flashed all over his face.

“I am so sorry to cut this conversation short but I have to go,” Doyoung stood, his other hand reaching out for the book, the other for his wallet. He fished out a couple of dollars and grabbed Taeyong’s wrist, willing his palms to open up.

“A small gift for your wonderful humor.”

Taeyong looked at his palm and saw a hundred dollar bill. Surprised by Doyoung’s generosity, he looked back up at him stunned. “But why?”

Doyoung offered no explanation. Instead, he shot the same coy smile that made Taeyong’s knees turn into putty.

“I’ll see you when I see you, Taeyong.”

Taeyong did not even realize that Doyoung had left the bar after someone slapped his back with such brute force. He turned around to see Johnny and Yuta’s inquisitive faces, eyes shooting back and forth from the money on his hand and Taeyong’s frozen look.

The trance had broken when Yuta snatched the bill for a closer look. The former said, “This is real, right?”

“Uh,” Taeyong murmured, his mind not yet quite absorbing what had transpired between him and this beautiful man named Doyoung, “he gave me a hundred because I was funny.”

“You?” Johnny said incredulously, “Funny? Did I hear that right?”

Yuta did not skip a beat, “You’re the least funny person in this world, Taeyong. What is that guy on?”

“You bet I could’ve made him laugh more. He would’ve given me a thousand dollars for my humor.” Johnny said.

“Shut up,” Taeyong blushed, grabbing at the bill that Yuta was still inspecting. “He also said that he’s here because he couldn’t sleep.”

“Shoot,” Johnny said in disbelief, “I thought I got that one in the bag. _Ah, fuck._ ”

The taller guy gave Taeyong another hundred dollars for the bet. “You win.”

“Don’t ever doubt me again Johnny Suh.” Taeyong pocketed all of the money with a sweet smile as he walked back towards the bar.

* * *

Outside, Doyoung briskly walked on the streets. He was trying desperately not to break out into a full sprint. He would’ve looked like a madman running through the streets at three in the morning. Jaehyun messaged him the other night to meet at his apartment at this hour, apologizing that he messaged him on such short notice and that they had some things that they have to talk about.

Doyoung doesn’t care. Jaehyun could message him at any time of the day and he would be running towards him.

 _God._ He misses Jaehyun so much.

Suddenly, he was grateful for the insomnia that has plagued him for months now. If it weren’t for that, he wouldn’t have caught Jaehyun’s message in the dead of the night. He wouldn’t have had another chance to look at his face and tell him how much he had missed him.

After turning a sharp corner, he was greeted with the same apartment complex that he has lived in for the past two years. He used to live on the tenth floor with Jaehyun, his boyfriend--no, scratch that, his ex. The two of them just broke up a few months ago, and that was when Doyoung had to move to a completely new condominium, pick up the pieces of his life back up, and fill the spaces that Jaehyun used to occupy with alcohol and work.

For now, all he feels for him is yearning. An endless ache for everything.

He pressed at the elevator buttons. All of this was muscle memory for him. He waited, the numbers flipping as he ascended the floors. The elevator doors opened at Jaehyun’s floor and he walked his way to his door.

With a soft knock, followed by short raps on the door; Jaehyun’s familiar face greeted him on the other side of the doorway.

“Hey.”

“You look the same,” Doyoung says awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Jaehyun opened the door wider to invite Doyoung in. He closed the door behind him as his eyes roved around the apartment.

So many things have changed since he left.

Does he even wish to be back?

Doyoung walked deeper into the apartment, and beyond the hallway was Jaehyun’s living room. Much to his surprise, most of the things were packed into boxes.

“What’s this?” Doyoung asked, knowing full well what the answer was to his question.

“I’m moving out,” Jaehyun pauses for a second, looking everywhere else except Doyoung, “tomorrow.”

He was surprised, but then the rational part of his mind thought that he hadn’t heard from Jaehyun since moving out himself. The suddenness of his move shouldn’t affect him.

But it does.

It fucking does.

“I miss you,” Doyoung whispers, his hands clenching into his fists as he holds back the tears in his eyes. The paperback resists his clenched fist on his right hand. The cardboard cover digging lines on his palms.

Jaehyun purses his lips, not knowing what to say. Instead, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned away, looking for something. He reached out for a small box and grabbed it from the bottom of his overflowing pile of boxes.

“I called you because of this,” Jaehyun says, his eyes downcast, still avoiding Doyoung’s gaze. “I didn’t know where you live so I had to ask you to pick it up before I leave.”

“And you obviously left the action of calling me up for the last minute.”

Jaehyun does not talk.

Doyoung clicks his tongue, his grief suddenly making way for a greater, more unrefined demon of his: rage. He closes his eyes as he lets the white-hot anger course through him, marred by his frustration, and chased by disbelief.

He missed Jaehyun so much and had ruminated so much on what had happened on their two-year relationship that he couldn’t sleep. Now Jaehyun couldn’t even look at him in the eye.

“How could you do this to me?” Doyoung’s voice cracks as he tries to find the right words to say. “You broke up with me, broke my heart into pieces, and now you’re not even talking to me?”

His eyes blurred as tears started to form, “You could’ve just told me you do not love me anymore, Jaehyun. But, no. You,” he takes the box from Jaehyun’s arms, “you had to treat me like I do not exist at all.”  
“Fuck you.” Doyoung spat back at him. Jaehyun did not budge. He still had that same expression of mild inconvenience ever since Doyoung walked in on his apartment.

All that could escape from his mouth was a small voice saying, “I’m sorry.”

Doyoung shook his head, angry--angry at Jaehyun for doing this to him all over again. Angry because he misses him so bad his heart hurts. Angry, because he knows that there could never be another chance for the two of them again.

He turns to his heel and leaves the apartment; tears spilling as he walks his way through the streets and back to his condominium. The streets were familiar, yet he despised how much he had memorized them like the back of his hand. The box felt surprisingly heavy on his arms but he did not care. He doesn’t even want to open it anymore. He wants to throw the contents right on the dumpster but he knows that he can’t. He can’t just throw everything away. He’s not like Jaehyun.

Not at all.

A small voice chimed behind him, ending his train of thoughts. By that time, the tears have dried out. Doyoung turned around to see where the voice was coming from. A slightly familiar face greeted him. It was the sharpness of his jaw, the thick eyebrows, and wide doe eyes that caught him. It was that guy from the bar. _The funny one._

“Doyoung, right?” The guy asks, glancing a little bit on his watch, “I thought you went home a few hours ago.”

As if broken from a trance, Doyoung slightly panicked, realizing the slight pain on his feet and the slow, dull throb of his calves. He had been walking in circles for hours now.

“Ah,” his voice seemed to get trapped in his throat, “something just happened.” A pained smile concluded his statement.

Taeyong does not press, seeing that Doyoung was not as chirp as he was a few hours ago. In a few minutes, the sun will start to rise, and the cold breeze was unforgiving even in the city. He grabs a box of cigarettes on the back of his jeans and stuffs one in the middle of his lips.

“You smoke?”

“Yeah.” Doyoung drops the box on the floor and grabs himself a cigarette. After lodging it between his lips, Taeyong lit Doyoung’s cigarette up, and then his own.

“I love how quiet sunrises are,” Taeyong starts, trying to distract Doyoung’s obvious restlessness, “I think it’s the only time of the day when I feel at peace.”  
“I don’t think I even know what peace is like anymore,” Doyoung takes a long drag, filling his lungs with the warm, pungent, yet slightly sweet smoke. His nerves were still fried up but the cigarette helped.

Taeyong tapped the ash from his cigarette onto the bin. “Peace is a privilege not everyone has. I’m just thinking that whatever it might be that’s disturbing you,” he breathes, the morning air sharply hits the back of his nostrils, “I hope it leaves you alone, soon.”

Doyoung does not speak. He lets Taeyong’s words saturate his mind until it is all he can think about. He reflects on his past, and everything that had transpired for the past few months. The lack of sleep is easy to curb (with what caffeine and nicotine can do) but the loneliness, god, the loneliness. It’s the thing that’s killing him the most.

“I don’t want to be left alone anymore,” he sighs, almost inaudible.

Taeyong catches his words. He takes the cigarette and smokes until all was left was the filter. He turned to face Doyoung and said, “You can have me.”

“Like, for hooking up? I’m confused,” Doyoung shot him a puzzled look.

Taeyoung burst out laughing, “No! I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you looked like a kicked puppy and I wanted to offer you my companionship.”

“What do you want in return?” Doyoung was skeptical. Taeyong keeps on surprising him.

The older shrugged, picking out another cigarette and lighting it up. “I don’t know. I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“It amazes me how someone who was stammering so much awhile ago is now proposing a crazy scheme,” Doyoung presses, interrogates him even, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I am alright. You were extremely charismatic back then and now I’m just worried for you.” Taeyong’s eyebrows furrowed before asking him a question.

“Do you have any friends?”

“Wha-” Doyoungs mouth opened in protest, trying to find the right rebuttal for Taeyong’s blunt question. He raises a finger but it withers just as fast when he realized that Taeyong was right.

“No. I don’t have anyone else right now.”

Taeyong took the cigarette off of his mouth with his index and middle finger to flash a huge smile at him, “Case in point. You can always hit me up.”  
“I don’t understand,” Doyoung scratches the back of his head, “you’re too nice.”

“Yes,” Taeyong said in a matter of fact tone, “yes I am.”

He did not miss a beat, he looked at Doyoung’s coat and said, “You have a phone right? Can I borrow it?”

The younger slipped his hand into his coat and handed his phone onto Taeyong’s outstretched hand. Taeyong punched in some numbers and called it. Soon enough, a ringtone coming from his back pocket was heard.

“Great,” Taeyong slips the phone back into his coat. His hands were warm when it made contact with his chest, “take good care of my number for me.”

Taeyong stumped the cigarette butt on the ashtray, “I have to go,” he trailed off.

“Oh,” Doyoung replied. The sky had noticeably gone lighter with the sun rising up on the horizon. Even the birds were already starting to chirp. “Sure. Take care.”

“You too, Doyoung.” Taeyong walked backward, still facing Doyoung, “Call me when you’re bored, okay?”

“I will.” He smiled back at him.


End file.
